Hunger by Karen E. Taylor

imagined, a sweeter flavor than most. He never complained like some others about the sharp nip I would give him during our love play and he never missed what I took.
    I struggled back into my tight, pink uniform, and as I got out of his truck, he jumped out and gave me a small swat on the behind. “You serve the best coffee in the tri-state area, darlin’.”
    â€œThank you, Buddy.” My eyes danced as I reached up to kiss him. I adjusted his collar to hide the fang marks on his neck.
    â€œGo easy on the hickies next time, honey. The last one you gave me lasted two weeks and the missus got suspicious.” He was smiling as he said it, proud, I thought, of our monthly liasons.
    â€œI just can’t control myself around you, Buddy.” I gave him another kiss, this one on the cheek and watched as he got back into the cab. “Drive carefully, and see you next month.”
    I watched him drive away and looked at my watch. It was time for me to go off shift. I would sleep well this night.
    I stopped off to deposit half of Buddy’s tip in the cash register. As I walked out, Max walked in; our eyes met as we passed in the doorway. Just for that one second, I was overwhelmed with a sense of unity, a recognition of a soul within that could speak to mine. Then he blinked, the feeling faded and we went our separate ways. I thought about him as I drove to the isolated trailer in which I made my home; thought about the many years spent in a fruitless search, trying to discover someone who could share in my life, allay in some way the dark loneliness within which I existed. No spark had ever flared, until now. Not for the first time, I cursed the ill chance that made me what I was. If I could have endured the sunlight, I might have been able to stay and cultivate a relationship with this man. I was sure that, like all the others, he would be gone by tomorrow night.
    When I arrived at work the next evening, however, he was waiting outside the door, and softly called my name. I smiled broadly for the mere joy of his presence.
    â€œHow did you know my name?” I asked curiously.
    His voice was deep and cultured and seemed to caress my ears. “Well, for one thing, I asked your friends about you last night. And it’s written as plain as day on your uniform.” He chuckled a little at my expense, but somehow I didn’t mind.
    â€œYes, I guess it is.” I glanced at the name embroidered on the cheap dress, embarrassed because I had forgotten it was there. In reality it was no more my name than any of the others I had carried over the years. But here, at a tiny truck stop in Kansas I was known as Diane Gleason. “But,” I said with a smile, “your name isn’t.”
    â€œI’m Max,” he said briefly. “Max Hunter.” Then after a small pause, “Do you think you could get tonight off? I’ll only be in town for a few more days, and I’d like to get to know you.”
    One of the oldest lines in the book, I thought, but it didn’t matter. He seemed so perfect.
    I went into the diner and got permission to take the night off. Sincc I usually had nothing else to do, I had covered for the other waitresses more than a few times; now they could return the favor. Besides, Max had made quite an impression on them last night, and they were happy to oblige when I promised a detailed report on him the next day.
    He drove me to my trailer so that I could change my clothes. I half expected him to make his move then, but he waited politely in the car until I came out, dressed in jeans and a black suede shirt, fringed and strewn with sequins. It was one of my favorite garments, but I seldom had a chance to wear it. I caught his admiring glance as I got into the car and felt that the long evenings cutting and stitching had all been worth it.
    â€œYou have a good eye for clothes, Diane. That’s very attractive.” He reached over, to touch the material, I